


Somebody to Love

by flootzavut



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Blanket Permission, Canon Compliant, Episode Related, Episode: s01e03 Hard Times, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Relationship Status: It's Complicated, Romance, Slightly metaphysical sex, Smut, TV Canon, allosexual Crowley, but tasteful, mixing it up over here, queer, sexual angels, 🤣
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22050961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flootzavut/pseuds/flootzavut
Summary: "Hours after their daring escape, full of crêpes and wine, they stumble back to Crowley's lodging house."France, posh clothing, and making the effort.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 83





	Somebody to Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alleyesonthehindenburg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alleyesonthehindenburg/gifts), [brinnanza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/gifts).



> Brinn gave me some hugely helpful and encouraging feedback back in August I started writing this; no beta, so no one else is to blame 😉 but Brinn is somewhat to be thanked for me not throwing my hands up and giving up on this story in despair months ago - thank you, dear ♥️
> 
> There's a teeny tiny bit of French towards the end; the translation _should_ come up in a hover box, but I did also put the translation in a footnote (note to any French speakers: my apologies if I ballsed it up, but Aziraphale is canonically bad at French so I'm also kinda blaming him 🤣)
> 
> As usual, I mix and match book and show canon with wild abandon, but this riffs off the Bastille segment in episode 3 and was frankly inspired by Aziraphale's fucking gorgeous outfit from that scene. Picture in end notes if you need reminding!

* * *

_**Somebody to Love** _

* * *

Hours after their daring escape[1], full of crêpes and wine, they stumble back to Crowley's lodging house. Crowley's not quite sure when they decided that, but clearly it's an excellent idea. It's run by a lady of ill repute and extraordinarily good reputation, so it's much cleaner and nicer than anywhere Aziraphale might have found. (Crowley's not about to tell Aziraphale the exact nature of the establishment, nor what assumptions will be made about the two of them retiring to his room.)

They roll in and settle easily on a small loveseat; Crowley lounges, because that's what a demon does, and even Aziraphale slumps into his corner, half turned towards Crowley, eyelids heavy with alcohol and food. Crowley has the almost unbearable urge to curl up in Aziraphale's lap, and Aziraphale might even let him, especially if he took on his snake form, but it seems like more effort than he can muster. (It's not at all that he's afraid of rejection. Not in the slightest.) Aziraphale's knee resting lightly against his is a good deal better than nothing, at least.

Aziraphale takes off his cap and frowns at it, then tugs at his jacket, clearly missing the finery that nearly led to his untimely discorporation.

"You know," says Crowley, grinning, "now we're behind closed doors, no one's going to tell you off for looking like a French nob."

The borderline innuendo leaves Aziraphale pink and flustered. "I don't have any other clothes here, Crowley."

Crowley arches an eyebrow. "Oh, come _on_ , Angel."

"I told you, I was reprimanded for frivolous miracles. And besides, caring about appearances is not very angelic." Aziraphale sits up (sort of) and folds his hands in his lap in a way that would be decidedly prim if he weren't so drunk he's listing.

"It's only a tiny miracle. They won't even notice, I'm sure. Or if you're really so squeamish, at least allow _me_ to dress you properly."

"Well really. Not all of us want to wear clothing that's been miracled out of raw firmament," Aziraphale scolds mildly.

Crowley grins. "Not even for a special occasion?" He gives Aziraphale his best puppy-dog eyes. "Not even if I ask _really_ nicely?"

Aziraphale's blush deepens. "Why ever do you care, anyway?"

"It suits you, that's all. Even if it did almost get your head chopped off."

"It suits me?" Aziraphale preens despite himself.

"Why would I lie?" _You looked fucking delicious, Angel. Work with me here_. "Anyway, it isn't raw firmament; you aren't naked." (Chance would be a fine thing.)

"That's hardly the point."

"What _is_ the point?"

"It's... unseemly."

"You're absurd."

"I have standards."

"Yes, you said. And yet you're dressed as a peasant."

Aziraphale looks down at himself miserably. "I'm a principality," he tries, in a whiny voice Crowley recognises as weakening. "I can't just miracle myself new clothes on a whim." _Please, Crowley, convince me I can_.

" _Angel_. Come on, you know you want to. For me." Usually it's Aziraphale who uses this particular tone to get what he wants, but Crowley's a demon, after all; he's not above a little shameless wheedling. "Really, it barely counts. You said so yourself. You know you'll feel so much better if you don't look like I just dragged you in off the street."

"Tempter."

"That's my _job_ ," Crowley points out with the wickedest smile in his repertoire. Aziraphale pouts. (Crowley's the official tempter here, but Aziraphale is doing a fine job himself without even trying.)

Inspiration hits; with a flick of his wrist, Crowley miracles himself into something not unlike the garb that got Aziraphale into so much trouble, except his is red and black and involves rather less lace and far more skin. After a moment's thought, he loosens his hair from its carefully coiffed curls and shakes it out; Aziraphale has a tendency to ogle it when it's long, and Crowley very much enjoys the admiration. "See? Much nicer." He wiggles a shiny shoe in Aziraphale's direction, which gets him a wistful, sad-kitten expression. "Don't you want to look pretty again?"

There's a pause. "Well..."

Crowley leans in. "For me," he says again, but this time it's a sultry murmur that makes Aziraphale blush still more deeply.

"Oh, all right, all right," he says, peevish but secretly pleased (Crowley knows him too well to be fooled), and gestures at himself. (The resultant outfit might be just the tiniest bit nicer and cleaner than before, the showoff, and the curls on his forehead are quite obscenely perfect. Crowley would give anything to dishevel him a little. Or a lot.) "There, is that better?" He looks caught halfway between shame and pleasure, but he also sits up a good deal straighter.

Crowley stifles a smirk. His angel is a peacock, but would never admit it. "Much." Crowley returns the once-over he owes Aziraphale from the Bastille, though he's decidedly less coy about it, catching his tongue between his front teeth and grinning slowly. Aziraphale blushes yet again and flaps his hands and absolutely fails to hide how totally flustered he is. (It's adorable.)

"Oh, good gracious." What's more interesting than the blush (Aziraphale in a tizzy is not especially unusual, after all) is the way he steals another _look_ , biting his lip unconsciously as his gaze lingers at Crowley's throat. (The red shirt leaves much less to the imagination than the peasant clothing did.) Crowley grins, and lounges a little harder.

After a long moment, Aziraphale seems to realise he's staring and looks sharply away, then peers back up at Crowley's face as if he's checking what Crowley did and did not see.

Crowley just barely resists the renewed temptation to smirk; the last thing he wants is for Aziraphale to get spooked and sober up and feed him some line about hereditary enemies, then leave him to his own devices, especially when the other, better option is to enjoy one another's company and get even more pleasantly sozzled than they already are.

He reaches out a hand and finds a bottle that wasn't there a moment ago. "One more drink, Angel?"

Aziraphale blinks slowly, and nods. They both know it won't just be one drink, but it's a friendly fiction that lets them both believe (or at least, act as if they believe) that Crowley is tempting and Aziraphale is thwarting, rather than that they're both shirking their duties and neither of them cares.

Somewhere down the third bottle of miracle, Aziraphale finally loosens up the last of his metaphorical corset stays[2] and hoiks a foot onto Crowley's knee. "Be a dear, won't you?"

Crowley never reads too much into Aziraphale's behaviour when drunk, but that's not to say he doesn't enjoy the casual intimacy. He takes Aziraphale's shoe off with great care and deliberation, then wraps his hands around Aziraphale's foot and digs his thumbs into the fleshy muscle.

Aziraphale shivers happily, eyes fluttering closed. "Oh, dear boy," he whispers, relaxing back into his seat. Crowley's half-convinced he doesn't realise he said that aloud.

Crowley rarely gets to see Aziraphale quite this... abandoned. He's so very conscious that he's an _angel_ , that he's not even supposed to be _seen_ with a demon, that at any point, Gabriel or someone even more obnoxious[3] might turn up to tell him off. Steeped in alcohol and with some degree of privacy, Aziraphale can occasionally let his guard down and relax into who he really is under all the worry and adherence to duty: kind, sarcastic, funny, bitchy Aziraphale, who likes wine and food and Crowley, the angel who has far too much of a hold on this demon.

Eventually, Aziraphale hoists his other foot into Crowley's lap without even opening his eyes, crossing his ankles and expecting Crowley to get the message. Crowley does, of course, and it helps that Aziraphale can't see the stupid, goofy grin he gets over this simple domesticity.

For his part, the angel looks positively beatific. It's the same expression as when he's tucking in to a particularly juicy filet mignon, or sipping his precious Châteauneuf-du-Pape; Crowley enjoys it in this context at least as much as he enjoys watching Aziraphale eat and drink.

If Aziraphale had any idea how tempting he is, especially when he whimpers...

Crowley shakes his head. Stopping himself from pressing his luck is almost a full time hobby, and has been for longer than he cares to recall, but the angel still finds ways to turn his head; Aziraphale dressed as a French nobleman is downright unfair.

(And here Crowley is making life even more difficult for himself (as usual) by _touching_ Aziraphale and prompting noises like _that_.)

As if on cue, Aziraphale lets out a happy sigh and wiggles his toes. "You're terribly good at that," he says on another sigh.

Crowley shrugs a shoulder. _It's terribly easy to do nice things for you, Angel_. "After a while, you pick things up." Let Aziraphale assume he learned as a way to tempt humans; no one need know his skills are rarely employed on anyone else. He tries (and fails) not to be distracted by Aziraphale's pleased hum, and reminds himself yet again that this means nothing, and they're just two... colleagues (of a sort) innocently (ish) socialising during their time off.

When he glances up, Aziraphale's watching him through half lidded eyes, pupils blown wide and dark. Crowley digs his thumbs into a particular spot (he knows Aziraphale's feet far too well) and enjoys the little gasping moan it inevitably prompts.

"Good gracious." Another shiver. "You're so very kind to me," Aziraphale says. He licks his lips, and oh, Crowley is so tempted to lean in for a nibble. He doesn't try to speak, forcing his gaze away instead and looking down at Aziraphale's foot as if it holds the secrets of the universe. "I am dreadfully grateful, you know," Aziraphale confides. "Not just for this. It was awfully sweet of you to rescue me."

Crowley's cheeks heat. He shouldn't like it so much when Aziraphale says things like that, but making sure no harm comes to his angel is half Crowley's raison d'être. "Yeah, yeah, I'm nice, don't rub it in."

"You could get into ever so much trouble."

Statements of the bleeding obvious do not, in Crowley's considered opinion, merit a response. He shrugs. He can see in his peripheral vision that Aziraphale's still watching him, and it's tempting to blurt it out, how of course he looks after Aziraphale, how Aziraphale makes the centuries so much more interesting and enjoyable, how if Aziraphale were sent back to Head Office, Crowley would be _miserable_. (How if something worse were to happen to Aziraphale, Crowley simply couldn't bear it.)

"Dear?"

The tenderness in Aziraphale's voice is too much. Crowley daren't speak.

Aziraphale reaches out and gently tugs one of his curls, affectionate, almost teasing. "You're a remarkably good guardian angel. Especially for a demon."

 _Ugh_. A demon shouldn't be anyone's guardian angel, let alone one to an _actual_ angel. If Hell finds out... _But they won't_ , he assures himself, and anyway, he's willing to take the risk.

" _Thank_ you," Aziraphale whispers, so quietly and so softly that it aches.

Crowley shrugs again. "Someone has to keep you out of trouble," he says, trying for nonchalant.

Aziraphale giggles in the lazy, hazy way he has when he's drunk enough that almost everything's potentially funny. "If I walk back to my room looking like this, I'll be in trouble again before you can say guillo- guillot- head-chopping machine."

 _Then don't_. "I'll see you home," Crowley says instead. "I dare say we can disguise you somehow, at least long enough to get you to England in one piece."

"Or I could change my outfit back."

"Pfft!"

"I could!"

"But you won't." Silence. When Crowley looks up, Aziraphale's pouting comically. "I know you, Angel. You like to look pretty."

"Oh, you," he says, both mild censure and affectionate amusement clear in his voice. (He doesn't deny it; they both know Crowley's right.) He's hopeless at pretending to be stern; he wriggles happily, totally unable to hide his pleasure. "And do I?"

"Do you what?"

He turns pink again. "Do I look... _pretty_?"

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Yes," he says, giving Aziraphale another leisurely once-over. "Yes, Angel, you look extremely pretty."

"Oh!" Aziraphale wiggles again, all the way down to his toes. He's definitely had too much to drink when he's this shameless in his enjoyment of Crowley's appreciation.

"Peacock," Crowley admonishes with a smile.

"Hush." Aziraphale gives what was probably supposed to be an arch look, but with roses in his cheeks and lopsided from alcohol, it's mostly amusing. They grin at each other. It's too bad it can't always be like this.

After a long moment, Aziraphale's face falls. Maybe he's thinking the same.

(Not that it matters. It wouldn't change a blessed thing.)

He sighs heavily and swings his legs out of Crowley's lap. (Crowley bites back his protest; a demon isn't supposed to enjoy giving an angel a foot rub, much less complain when it stops.)

Aziraphale stretches, then tucks his feet under his bottom. "You look after me so well, my dear," he whispers, utterly guileless and sincere, swaying towards Crowley like a flower seeking sunlight. It takes all Crowley's considerable willpower not to gather him close, and he can't help reaching out to run one fingertip oh so very lightly down Aziraphale's cheek. It's foolish, but Aziraphale just smiles and shuffles even closer.

Crowley's rapidly running out of ways to keep his hands occupied, so he miracles them both full glasses, then has to bite his tongue when their fingers brush together as he passes one to Aziraphale and it's as if they completed a circuit, sensation rushing through him bright and sparkling. Aziraphale blinks; Crowley wonders if there's any chance it wasn't just him who felt it.

He can't possibly ask, though. Instead, he hides behind his glass and takes a much bigger gulp than is at all wise.

Aziraphale sips his wine without breaking eye contact. Crowley definitely shouldn't read anything into it, but Lucifer preserve him, it's difficult.

With his chin resting on his fist, looking up at Crowley with those clear, lovely eyes, Aziraphale looks something like the human notion of an angel, and something like a sweet, innocent young man Crowley's been tasked to wile away from the path of virtue. It's all Crowley can do to restrain himself to staring.

"What?" Aziraphale asks.

"What do you mean, what?" Crowley shoots back.

"I hate not being able to tell what you're thinking."

It's somewhat alarming; if Aziraphale can usually tell what he's thinking, the implications are disastrous. Crowley doesn't have time to develop a full head of panic, though, because Aziraphale reaches up, gently removes Crowley's shades, and smiles at him. "There you are," he says, looking satisfied. "That's much better."

Crowley flushes. He can hide his eyes from humans if it pleases him, he doesn't need the disguise for demons, and he's used to what he sees in the mirror. But Aziraphale... Aziraphale is an angel, made of all that's holy and divine; Crowley's so afraid of seeing disgust or censure on his face. The shades are part of that fear. Aziraphale has never looked at him askance because of the visible sign of his fall, never seems to mind, but Crowley daren't trust it. And yet...

He can hardly bear how fond Aziraphale's expression is. Maybe that's the size of it. Being the object of such obvious affection and not being able to reach for more. Not daring to, for fear of losing this friendship, this association, this Arrangement that neither of them will look at too closely and would never admit to anyone else even exists, this fragile bubble of a thing that could so very easily be broken, and with it most of Crowley's will to keep doing what he's doing decade after decade.

The weight of it all crashes over him and he looks away, reaching for yet more wine, topping up his own glass and then Aziraphale's. More alcohol is probably the last thing he should have, but absolutely the thing he most needs. The moment is gone, but he feels exposed, eyes uncovered; Aziraphale is still there at the edge of his vision, watching him with a warm (albeit tentative) smile.

When they finish the bottle, it would be sensible for Crowley to call it a night, to stop before he does anything stupid, to draw back from the precipice. Then Aziraphale miracles up a magnum of champagne, giving Crowley a coy smile, and it would be rude not to. Besides, Crowley definitely can't send him out into Paris looking like _that_ and imagining champagne is a safe thing to drink.

Enough alcohol can wear away at the inhibitions of even an angel or a demon.[4] By the time _that_ bottle is all but empty, Crowley's finding it exceedingly difficult to care about Heaven, Hell, and hereditary enemies. Their knees are pressed together now, and all he can think about is how the champagne would taste on Aziraphale's tongue.

"'Ziraphale?"

"Yes, Crowley?"

Aziraphale seems to be having trouble focusing, too. He drags his gaze up to meet Crowley's and blinks twice. Crowley gently grasps his lapels and tugs him closer, till their noses touch.

Aziraphale stares up, eyes wide. "What?"

"You really are very pretty, you know," Crowley drawls.

Aziraphale blinks more and blushes a deep red. It's terribly becoming. "Thank you, my dear," he manages; then, much more quietly, "So are you."

Crowley gapes at the compliment. "You think I'm pretty?" He meant it to come out as a joke, as a tease, not as a question, but he's had far too much wine for nuance.

"Well- of course," Aziraphale says, forehead creasing, as if it should be obvious. "You look so nice with your hair down," he adds, bashful but earnest.

"You think I'm _pretty_ ," Crowley says again, and this time he's crowing properly, like he meant to before. _Good call with the hair_. "Aziraphale thinks I'm pretty, fellas, well how about that?" He gestures to an invisible audience. "One for the record books, ladies, gents and everyone else." He leans back in, till Aziraphale's eyes fill his whole field of vision. "Know what, Angel?" He's too drunk to do anything but exactly what he wants to do, as long as Aziraphale lets him. And Aziraphale thinks he's pretty, so he reckons his chances are all right. "You know what?"

"What, dear boy?"

"You're ver' pretty." With considerable effort, Crowley focuses on Aziraphale's mouth. "You're so pretty, Angel. You wanna know a secret?" Aziraphale nods solemnly. "You're so pretty, I think... I think 'm gonna kiss you now, all right?"

Aziraphale frowns, but leans in obligingly. "'Kay."

Crowley closes the gap and presses his mouth against Aziraphale's. It starts messy and a little sloppy, but demons and angels are only ever as drunk as they've chosen to be, and Crowley's enjoying the buzz but doesn't want to miss a second of this. He summons a generous helping of coordination and continues with more assurance, nipping lightly at Aziraphale's bottom lip, taking the little gasp of pleasure as both approval and welcome, tilting his head to kiss Aziraphale harder and deeper. It's hot and sweet and delicious; the champagne has nothing on Aziraphale himself.

Aziraphale sags into his chest with another noise, this one a heartfelt whimper. Crowley hasn't made _that_ kind of effort for a very long time, but the sound plucks at some almost-forgotten corner of his soul, and his body reacts obligingly.

It's... _startling_ to note that Aziraphale seems quite well practised, following the give and take of kissing with grace and ease. It's obvious he's done this before, that it isn't the first time he's kissed or been kissed. Not even a celestial being thousands of years old is _this_ good without practical experience. He combs his fingers into Crowley's hair, tugs on it, and oh, it's wonderful. Crowley's caught between jealousy of whomever Aziraphale kissed before him and absolute bliss.[5]

For his part, Crowley's done plenty of kissing, but never with an angel. (Nor a demon - he knows where they've been. Yuk.) Aziraphale is warm, not just physically, but overflowing with love and acceptance in a way even Crowley can sense.

Perhaps it's something about the vulnerability of it, the openness, the physical intimacy (oh Lucifer, that's _Aziraphale's tongue_ ). Perhaps it's just Crowley's imagination working overtime. It hardly matters. Whatever it is, it's as if after all these centuries, he suddenly believes to his bones that Aziraphale cares for him, even loves him, and he never wants it to stop.

It's bloody marvellous.

They have no pressing physical needs to distract them, so they kiss and kiss and kiss for what could easily be hours. Crowley wants desperately for it to - well - _escalate_ , but kissing Aziraphale is not something he'll ever get bored of. He slips his hands up over Aziraphale's shirt; he's warm, _so_ warm, and so soft.

Crowley's spent the last almost six millennia wishing, but he could never have guessed how different it would be to kiss Aziraphale. Because Aziraphale is an angel; because Aziraphale knows him better than anyone in the universe; because Crowley fell again, back in the Garden, and after six thousand years, he's finally been caught, he's finally beloved.

Because Aziraphale is Aziraphale.

When they eventually surface, both gasping for breath they absolutely do not need, Aziraphale's lips are shiny pink and his pupils are wide. He looks deeply startled, an emotion Crowley can relate to, though Crowley may be slightly better equipped to deal with it.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale says.

It isn't at all clear whether it's an endearment or an expression of regret. (Crowley's suddenly terrified it's the latter.) "Angel?"

"Oh, dear me."

"What's the matter?"

Aziraphale shakes his head. "I'm too drunk for this."

Crowley's heart falls. He doesn't protest, he's not that kind of demon, but sober Aziraphale will say this has gone quite far enough, will cut Crowley off from that sensation of love, and he's certain he can't bear it.

He sobers up the rest of the way, too. If Aziraphale's going to be _sensible_ about this, Crowley needs all his wits about him to deal with the rejection. He winces as the alcohol leaves his body, gives himself a shake and a stretch, then turns back to the angel.

Aziraphale smiles gently (which is not at all what Crowley expected). "Now dear," he says, "where were we?"

Crowley opens his mouth to say something - anything - that might deflect from his intense disappointment, but then Aziraphale's hand is on his jaw, Aziraphale is leaning towards him again, and Crowley's so taken aback, for a moment he doesn't even respond to the renewed kiss.

"Oh, _Crowley_ ," Aziraphale murmurs against his lips, voice rich with need.

Crowley is utterly, helplessly lost. He pulls Aziraphale closer, though, then into his lap, because however confused he is, there's no way in Heaven he's missing out on a single moment.

He wouldn't have believed it, but somehow it's better sober. His skin is alive with sensation, the feeling of being dear to Aziraphale is still more vivid, and his entire sense of self is free-falling in heady delight.

Rather wonderfully, it's also obvious now that it isn't just Crowley whose corporation is reacting enjoyably. Crowley's... touched. He never imagined Aziraphale would allow himself a sexual response to anyone, much less to Crowley, but Aziraphale is clearly in possession of a penis, and it's clearly very hard. "Oh, _Angel_ ," Crowley whispers, and he's surprised and shocked and thrilled by Aziraphale's low laughter.

"One does like to be prepared for all eventualities."

"Does one?" Crowley asks, in his best, poshest Aziraphale impression.

"Oh, shush," Aziraphale mutters, both embarrassed and thoroughly pleased with himself. "Oh. Oh _my_ ," he adds, when Crowley grabs his bottom and pushes up against him. "Goodness me."

"Angel?"

"Yes?" They both sound decidedly breathless.

"Kiss me."

"Oh, I say." Aziraphale smiles, bright, wide and happy, and obliges.

Crowley's torn between elation at how good it is and a growing urgency to do something about the heat rapidly overcoming him. It isn't the first time he's put this body through its paces, but it was never so desperate before, so needy. Sex with a human is fun and certainly enjoyable; this is setting fire in his veins. He needs to touch Aziraphale more than he's ever needed anything.

At least it seems to be mutual. Aziraphale's hands are everywhere, in Crowley's hair and on his face and pulling him closer. He leans down to kiss Aziraphale's throat, Aziraphale throws his head back and _whines_ , and Crowley nearly discorporates on the spot.

"Oh, God," he murmurs. He might be a demon, but to credit Hell or Satan with this would simply be absurd.[6]

If anyone was ever going to imagine something as ridiculous and incredible as an angel and a demon kissing, it would be Her. This has 'ineffable' scrawled all over it; Crowley would be annoyed if he weren't enjoying it so blessedly much.

"Crowley," Aziraphale whimpers, "oh Crowley, dear boy, my heart."

He buries his face in Aziraphale's neck, flicking his tongue out to catch the scent of Aziraphale's skin; when Aziraphale shudders and lets out a truly obscene noise, it's... indescribable.

"Oh my goodness, Crowley. Oh, my love."

Crowley has to pull Aziraphale into another kiss to _shut him up_. It makes no sense for Aziraphale to say... things like that. It shouldn't be _allowed_. It doesn't mean anything (Crowley daren't let himself hope), it must be the heat of the moment talking, the aftereffects of the wine (maybe Aziraphale didn't completely sober up), it would be foolish to believe otherwise, but hearing his name whispered in that tone, hearing Aziraphale murmur 'my love', is enough to break Crowley apart at the seams.

He tugs Aziraphale's shirt out of his trousers, snakes his hands up Aziraphale's back, and oh, he's just so _warm_. Crowley half-expects him to glow, for blinding heavenly light to pour out of him, mocking Crowley's closed eyes because mere eyelids would never be enough to protect against it.

"Crowley," Aziraphale moans into his mouth, sending a shiver down his spine. This is absolutely, definitively going to kill him, there's no doubt whatsoever, not just discorporate but utterly annihilate him, and Crowley can't think of a better way to end his life.

"Please," he manages, "oh, please." He's not sure what he's begging for, unless it's for Aziraphale to get inside him right this second (do angels even do... _that_...?), or for the chance to touch and lick and kiss Aziraphale all over, or for both and more, for everything Crowley's ever done and everything he's thought of doing, for all the things he doesn't even know to want. "Please!"

"My darling boy," Aziraphale says, then he's kissing Crowley even harder, filthy and divine, till Crowley's whining in desperation and arousal, canting his pelvis up into Aziraphale's and grinding their hips together.

Eventually they break apart again, both panting.

"Angel," Crowley manages, but he doesn't know what else to say.

Aziraphale melts into a tender smile, so soft and so warm, it's more painful and beautiful than any heavenly light could be. "Dearest."

If Crowley isn't careful, he's going to discorporate before they're even naked. He goes to miracle the rest of their clothes away; most unexpectedly, Aziraphale reaches out and stops him. "But Angel, I want-"

"So do I." Aziraphale's smile turns into a wicked little grin - where's he been hiding that all these centuries? "It's more fun to do it by hand," he says, starting in on Crowley's buttons.

There's a moment where Crowley stares in shock at the top of the angel's head (Aziraphale is losing no time kissing the skin he's exposing), and then he's reaching for that ridiculous cravat. It's not as if he ever really says no to Aziraphale, but he's certainly not fool enough to say no to this. "Full of surprises, aren't you?"

Aziraphale smiles up at him again, although this time it's less wicked and more shyly delighted. "Am I?"

"Since the beginning of time," Crowley whispers, cupping Aziraphale's cheeks and pulling him up into a deep, tender kiss.

Aziraphale, it turns out, is right about doing this the human way. Tugging at Aziraphale's clothes, fumbling with buttons, is both maddening and deeply satisfying; there's a distinct sense of triumph every time Crowley discards an item of clothing, every time he slips his hand under layers of fabric to find still more soft skin. It starts almost frantic, then slows, mellows. They kiss lazily, laughing at each other's awkwardness and inefficiency.

Aziraphale discovers Crowley's ribs are ticklish (much to Crowley's chagrin), and Crowley finds a spot behind the corner of Aziraphale's jaw that results in a lapful of squirming angel whining 'dear _boy_ ' in the most deliciously helpless voice Crowley's heard in his entire life.

"Bed?" he asks eventually, and the extremely small part of him that has retained some degree of dignity is mortified that it comes out as a husky, desperate rasp, but the rest of him doesn't care one jot. Aziraphale is half undressed in his lap, and nothing else - _nothing_ \- matters in the slightest.

Aziraphale nods. "Bed," he agrees.

Neither of them seems content to actually stop touching or kissing, but somehow they stumble across the room and topple gracelessly onto Crowley's unmade bed. Crowley pulls Aziraphale on top of him, into the cradle of his thighs, and there's Aziraphale's cock again, hard in his breeches, and Crowley still can't entirely believe it.

Only the knowledge of just how much Aziraphale loves his clothes stops Crowley from tearing the rest of them off. That he doesn't miracle them away after all is a feat of self-restraint, but he starts miracling buttons open and fastenings undone, anything that means getting his hands on Aziraphale a little faster. Aziraphale's laughter suggests that he knows Crowley's cheating, but he also gets the last of Crowley's clothes off so quickly that he's evidently doing exactly the same thing.

Crowley isn't even sure what happens in the end, whether the final few items discarded are removed hastily by hand or if they've been miracled who knows where; the main thing is that they're _gone_ , that there's nothing left but skin touching skin, and it's _wonderful_.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale whispers, sounding almost broken. "Oh, my darling boy."

Crowley swallows back anything he's tempted to say and just holds Aziraphale close. He wants more, he wants so much, but he would also be quite satisfied to settle into this moment for- well, forever.

Eventually, Aziraphale sits up and lets his wings unfurl with a quiet _fwomp_ \- quiet in the way of an incredibly loud sound heard from an unimaginably vast distance. They spread above and around the bed, huge and awe-inspiring; it's just as well they don't quite occupy normal physical space, or Crowley would get in dreadful trouble about damage to his room. Aziraphale lets out a sound of relief and pleasure as he stretches out the kinks.

He's beautiful.

Crowley frees his own wings. It is so _very_ nice, even more so when they touch and tangle with Aziraphale's; every point of contact, every feather, is more intimate than any earthly touch, however pleasurable. Aziraphale opens his eyes slowly, gazing down at Crowley, every inch the principality, guardian of the eastern gate, messenger of God, even in his human form.

No wonder every angel encounter starts with 'Fear not!'

Then he's leaning down again and cradling Crowley's jaw, both terrifying and tender. Crowley might burst into flames, but he still instinctively pulls Aziraphale closer as they kiss, runs his hands down Aziraphale's sides, his whole body crying out 'at last, at last!' Aziraphale shivers obligingly. Crowley squeezes his arse, so plump and perfect, and strokes his thighs.

"Glorious," he whispers in Aziraphale's ear.

Aziraphale shivers again. "Really?"

"Unbelievably."

"Oh, dear me."

"So soft," Crowley breathes, "you're so _soft_."

"It must be all that brioche."

"It's wonderful, you're wonderful," Crowley says between more kisses. He doesn't know how to explain how comfortable and comforting Aziraphale is, how much Crowley adores him. "Never change."

"No?"

"Never." _You're perfect, I love you_. No, he can't say that, not yet. "I like you just the way you are," he says instead.

Aziraphale giggles nervously. "And I you, dear heart," he replies. When Crowley looks up, Aziraphale is even more pink than before.

For a moment they're caught, the eye contact both far too much yet impossible to break; then Aziraphale wriggles, and Crowley slams his eyes shut because the sight and sound and touch all together - it's simply too much. He wants eternity - _several_ eternities - in this embrace.

Aziraphale leans down for more delicious kisses, and he's so - oh, he's so _naked_. Skin on skin is sweet torture; Crowley can't deal with how good it feels. Aziraphale nips at his throat and nuzzles his jaw and whines, and all the while he's a soft, shuddering mess in Crowley's arms.

"Such a wild and lovely thing," Aziraphale whispers in his ear at last. "So beautiful and good, and yet so untamed."

Crowley should be insulted, or at least unconvinced that 'good' is a compliment, but instead it's like a warm bath for his soul. "Untamed?"

"Utterly. Wild and free."

He's not, of course. This angel has entirely tamed him, he's a willing captive. He can't say that, though, so he laughs instead and pulls Aziraphale into another slow, sensuous kiss. Just as he's always imagined, Aziraphale sinks into his leisurely caresses, a hedonist to his bones, savouring every pleasure deeply and thoroughly.

Kissing has never been like this.

When they eventually part again, Aziraphale looks at him with half-lidded eyes, pupils blown dark.

Crowley can't take too much of that. Seeking distraction, he pushes Aziraphale onto his back and slithers down the bed to admire the effort he's made. (Is it truly simple good fortune that he's... equipped for the task at hand? Or is this for Crowley's benefit?) It's a rather nice effort, pink and fat, flushing more as Crowley watches. Aziraphale clearly put a great deal of time and thought into it; judging by the response when Crowley kisses it, it's in absolutely perfect working order. "Gorgeous."

Aziraphale _squeaks_ , which is both very funny and rather gratifying. He winds his fingers into Crowley's hair and pulls, hard. "Oh, mercy me," he manages, "that's very nice but I want - I want..."

Crowley allows himself to be dragged up again till he's looking into Aziraphale's face. He can still hardly bear it, but Aziraphale is so beautiful when he's desperate and needy and pink all over. Crowley wouldn't turn away for anything. "What do you want, Angel?"

Aziraphale blushes deeper. "I- should like to... ahem, what's the polite term? I've always thought of... being, um, inside..."

It takes a second, then Crowley's laughing in thrilled disbelief. "Aziraphale, are you saying you'd like to fuck me?" he asks. That must be what Aziraphale meant, but it seems so unlikely, he has to check he's not dreaming.

"Oh, goodness." Aziraphale covers his face with his hands and peers up at Crowley through his fingers.

He looks thoroughly mortified, and Crowley rushes to reassure him even though it's a challenge to speak through his laughter. "I'd be honoured," he manages. He's trying hard not to read too much into 'I've always thought'. The idea Aziraphale is interested in him that way at all is already somewhat mind-blowing; Crowley's not sure he can deal with the notion that it's not a spur of the moment thing, that Aziraphale wants him, has wanted him long enough to imagine it, to have fantasies he wants to fulfil. It makes Crowley lightheaded even to think about. _Get. It. Together._ He leans down and murmurs, "You can fuck me as long and hard as you'd like, Angel," right in Aziraphale's ear.

"Gosh."

Crowley really can't believe it. He's wanted this for so long, and now it's being handed to him on a platter. He daren't say another word, afraid to break the spell and hardly daring to breathe as they kiss again, pulling each other closer with arms, legs and wings.

It becomes a beautiful blur, only a few vivid moments standing out: Aziraphale's laughter as he tips Crowley onto his back again and smiles down at him in triumph, as if Crowley isn't exactly where he's always wanted to be; the sharp pleasure of Aziraphale opening him up, the hard heat of Aziraphale against his thigh; the flair of even deeper arousal and fiery jealousy that Aziraphale has obviously done this before; the weight of Aziraphale's body on top of his; the wild improbability of having an angel press into him and steal his breath. Aziraphale rocks in gently and sweetly, not pulling back any further than he has to, as if he's as reluctant as Crowley to let anything - even the heat of sex - tear them away from each other.

None of it's new, and yet it's all new. Crowley gasps and arches up into it, crying out, and Aziraphale murmurs comfort and adoration against his temple. It's too much. It's as if a piece of Aziraphale's soul is inside him, filling him, completing him. None of it can possibly be meant for Crowley, he's grieving the inevitable loss even as he folds himself around Aziraphale, trying to impress every sensation into his flesh so he can remember it forever.

"Darling," Aziraphale whispers, "dear one, my wonderful demon." Crowley gets lost in it, lost in Aziraphale's voice and body. This is all that matters, Aziraphale has been all that matters since the garden, and Crowley holds on with every ounce of strength in him, melting into the angel, _his_ angel, all warmth and tenderness in his arms, like fire inside him. This might, this will destroy him, he's sure. He hopes it does; he doesn't want to live beyond it.

When he comes, it's so good he expects to discorporate. It's everything all at once, pleasure and pain and desperate desire. He's dimly aware of Aziraphale crying out and clutching him harder, the sting of holiness as Aziraphale spills into him, but it all melts into one tsunami of emotion and sensation, longer and harder than he's ever known.

It's a surprise to find himself still in one piece once it's over, to discover he didn't even wreck his body by letting an angel come inside him. "Angel," he manages, low and rough. "Oh God, Angel."[7]

Aziraphale shushes him and fusses with his hair. "Crowley," he whispers urgently, "dearest, are you quite all right? Sweet boy, did I hurt you?"

He sounds so concerned for some unfathomable reason. Then Crowley realises with horror that there are tears escaping down his cheeks.

When he opens his eyes, Aziraphale's searching his face. "Dear one?" Aziraphale looks none too composed, either, though he isn't crying - no, _that_ is Crowley's mortifying department. "Please, darling, did I hurt you?"

Crowley shakes his head vehemently. It isn't quite true - _everything_ hurts, just not the way Aziraphale means. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. "I love you," he says, or tries to; his voice simply refuses to work. His throat is tight with longing and his lips won't form the words. All he can do is make inarticulate noises that mean nothing at all.

Aziraphale looks at him, expression open and warm, and still somewhat worried. A foolish part of Crowley wants desperately to admit what this means to him, how much he cares, but he can't force his body to cooperate. Aziraphale strokes and kisses the tears from his skin, so terribly tender.

It's too much. Crying more might be a comfort, and feels almost inevitable. Aziraphale's still inside him, and the physical intimacy is wonderful, but he doesn't trust it, doesn't dare, is far too afraid to believe it could mean what he wishes it meant.

"I'm all right," he gasps at last, "I'm all right, I'm just." He swallows hard. "That was..." Incredible, painful, soul-destroying, utterly transcendent. "A lot."

Aziraphale studies his face a moment longer, then relaxes a bit, to Crowley's relief. "It was, rather, wasn't it? Are you absolutely sure I didn't hurt you?"

Crowley suppresses the urge to either roll his eyes or cringe in embarrassment. Better to move off the subject as fast as possible. "Really, Angel, I'm _fine_."

Aziraphale takes another second, but then he's smiling. "Oh, good." He curls back into Crowley's body, snuggling close. "Mmmm," he murmurs, warm and sleepy and satisfied. (Crowley has so longed to make him sound like this.) "Oh, it really was _lovely_ , dear. Absolutely lovely."

"Thank you?" Crowley says uncertainly. 'Lovely'? For someone he's known for millennia, he still has terrible trouble deciphering Aziraphale's subtext. Or even figuring out if the subtext is a figment of his own imagination. (And is it even subtext anymore when they're naked and Aziraphale's inside him? What are the rules?)

Some more wiggles and more low noises of satisfaction do not help Crowley decipher what's happening in the least; all he knows is that he doesn't want it to stop, and when Aziraphale starts to carefully pull his softening cock out of Crowley's body, Crowley grabs on as if he might otherwise die.[8]

"Don't-" He swallows back the things he's tempted to say - _don't ever leave me, stay forever,_ love _me_ \- falling back on a more carnal plea. "Feels good. Inside me. Please?"

Aziraphale lets out a surprised chuckle. "Well, if you're enjoying it so much..."

Crowley nods. "Oh, please."

The laughter this time is lower and more amused. "So greedy, my demon. Well, it wouldn't be terribly angelic of me to leave you empty and unhappy would it?" Aziraphale adds, with that saucy mischief that keeps taking Crowley by surprise.

 _Oh, Heaven_.

It would be so easy and so stupid to let it all spill out, to admit he would be very nearly as happy to hold and be held fully dressed, to say that all he needs is Aziraphale's presence, but this... this is so much more than he ever imagined he would get. Maybe it's just human, maybe it's a pale reflection of the intimacy Crowley longs for, but Aziraphale is close and naked and beautiful and filling him up, and Crowley can't, _won't_ jeopardise that. He wraps himself harder around Aziraphale, lets his joints relax and remember what it's like to be a snake so he can hold on closer and tighter, digs his heels into Aziraphale's bottom to pull him in as deep as possible.

Aziraphale chuckles. "Oh, my darling," he whispers, voice drenched in laughter. "I could stay inside you forever."

 _Shit_. If Aziraphale keeps saying things like that, Crowley will be in so much trouble. "Ngk," he manages.

"In fact..." Aziraphale crinkles his nose in that delightful way he has (but this time with it pressed up tightly against Crowley's throat), hums in concentration, then Crowley whimpers, his eyes rolling back in his head.

" _Angel_." Aziraphale's hard again, gloriously hard and deep, and Crowley's vision whites out for a moment from sheer overstimulation.

"Do you not like it?" Aziraphale asks, slipping back into characteristic worry. "I can put it back how it was before, I just thought-"

"Don't you dare," Crowley growls. "Don't you _dare_."

"Oh, I say." Aziraphale still sounds a little concerned, but also rather pleased with himself. "I'll be sure to remember that for- oh-" He stops very suddenly, completely still for a second, then slumps against Crowley's chest with a disconsolate sigh.

Crowley's crosseyed and overwhelmed, and for a moment he doesn't understand, even opens his mouth to ask before he realises Aziraphale meant 'for next time' - a next time that's entirely wishful thinking, that apparently even an angel can't imagine will ever happen. Crowley doesn't know how to respond; there's no comfort to be had here, nothing either of them can say. He pulls Aziraphale even closer, and tries to pretend everything's okay even though that couldn't be further from the truth.

The silence between them isn't awkward, it's sad instead. Crowley wouldn't take today back, not for the world, but it's possible it will make seeing Aziraphale in the future even more painful than it's been for the last several thousand years. He wants to say- he's not sure. Thank you? I love you? He doesn't know. But it's sinking in how difficult this is, how dangerous, how ridiculous. He daren't open his mouth again, daren't give himself the chance to say something he shouldn't.

At least Aziraphale is true to his word, still hard and hot inside Crowley's body, and Crowley will take whatever he can get. Aziraphale strokes his hair, his shoulders, his feathers, and says something too quiet for even Crowley to catch. This is all they have, and all they're ever likely to get. There's nothing to be done but to savour it. Crowley holds on as hard as he can, and lets himself drift off with Aziraphale murmuring sweetly in his ear.

* * *

Crowley wakes unusually warm and aching pleasantly in all the best places. For some minutes, he doesn't even try to put the pieces together, just revels in his post-nap, post-coital bliss.

As he drifts towards consciousness, snippets of last night float through his mind, then suddenly he remembers - _really_ remembers - and he's sitting up in bed, searching the room. "'Ziraphale?"

There's no answer, there are no clothes on the floor save Crowley's own, and fuck, he's ruined everything, he's gone and wrecked it all with his stupid heart and stupid emotions, and-

There's a note on the pillow next to where he was lying, folded in three, with an ornate 'C' in Aziraphale's familiar hand. Crowley picks it up with trembling fingers; a shining white feather tumbles out when he opens it.

 _Merci et à bientôt, mon ange bien-aimé_.[9]

It fills Crowley with equal measures of tender warmth and utter hopelessness. Of course Aziraphale can't thank him properly for the rescue - Hell's French, fortunately, is even worse than Aziraphale's, so the risk with this short message is reasonably small, but it's real.

He carefully refolds it and flops back down on the mattress, clutching the paper to his chest. _My beloved angel_. Maybe one day Crowley will get to say it back for real; maybe Aziraphale will stay here, in Crowley's arms, where he assuredly belongs. Maybe one day, Crowley won't have to pretend anymore.

For now... for now, all he wants to do is sleep till 'one day' finally arrives.

_~ fin ~  
  
_

* * *

> 1Aziraphale insists on characterising it as such, and Crowley has no desire to disabuse him of the notion.[return to text]
> 
> 2The notion of Aziraphale in an _actual_ corset pops into Crowley's mind; he files it away for future contemplation.[return to text]
> 
> 3Is there anyone more obnoxious than Gabriel? Crowley suspects there might be, and cringes at the thought.[return to text]
> 
> 4Especially one who's exceptionally eager to be tempted.[return to text]
> 
> 5The longer it goes on, the more 'bliss' is winning.[return to text]
> 
> 6He wouldn't credit heaven with it, either, but God? Yeah, he can see Her coming up with something so good and confusing and overwhelming.
> 
> If anyone was ever going to imagine something as ridiculous and incredible as an angel and a demon kissing, it would be Her. This has 'ineffable' scrawled all over it; Crowley would be annoyed if he weren't enjoying it so blessedly much.[return to text]
> 
> 7He's absolutely blaming Her for this one.[return to text]
> 
> 8Which certainly feels true.[return to text]
> 
> 9Thank you and see you soon, my beloved angel.[return to text]

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I'm 95% sure I stole "a lady of ill repute and extraordinarily good reputation" from either Sir Terry or from Shakespeare in Love, or possibly a little of both.
> 
> I spent almost an hour and a half trying to make sure the footnotes were formatted properly so 🤞🏼🤞🏼🤞🏼 here's hoping I didn't screw up, but please let me know if I did!
> 
> Also, if anyone needs reminding of this amazing _lewk_ Azi was serving in France:
> 
> And this, but more Crowley (and with long ginger hair and snake eyes, obviously!), is what I had in mind when I had Crowley miracle himself something more ~~slutty~~ aristocratic to wear:


End file.
